Shards
by Samber
Summary: A collection of drabbley ficlets.
1. Overtime

**Ok, well this is going to be a collection of drabbley ficlets. I deleted the old ones here as I didn't like them anymore.**

**This first one is based on the prompt word 'Overtime', is Harry and Ros centric and contains spoilers for Series 8.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Spooks**

* * *

Harry wasn't surprised to find Ros still sitting at her desk, hours after everyone else had left the Grid. He sighed quietly to himself before stepping towards her desk.

Ros didn't look up, just remained staring, unblinking at her computer screen. She preferred to ignore him for now, a few more painless seconds, for she knew he would try to initiate conversation soon enough.

Harry could she the marks of exhaustion on her face, the dark lines under her eyes, a stark contrast to her pallid skin. Though the rest of her appearance was as immaculate as ever, sometimes he wondered how she did it.

After a full minute of painful silence on Harry's part, he spoke, the words exactly as Ros had pre-empted.

"Ros, you should go home."

Ros considered this for a full four seconds, before flatly replying with "I can't." Still not looking him in the face.

Harry pulled over a chair and sat opposite her. Ros' blonde hair fell across her face, casting a shadow over her pale skin as she bowed her head slightly, mentally rolling her eyes and preparing herself for the speech that was to come.

"Ros, I know it's been hard since Jo's death…"

Ros closed her eyes and clenched her jaw tightly, exposing the tendons in her neck. She wanted to scream at him _why don't you just say since I killed her?_

Ros couldn't go home because she couldn't sleep. Each night when she closed her eyes, Jo's face would swim into her head, giving a faint nod before Ros, before _she_ pulled the trigger. The gun shot still rang continuously in ears when she was alone, in the dark and the quiet. Nothing would stop the reverberating sound, the feeling of guilt, or the image of Jo's pretty face as those bright blue eyes faded, as though her very memory was being erased.

But she would never be forgotten, she was burnt into Ros' mind forever, the death of another innocent, but a death at her own hands. Ros would carry that burden forever.

Ros opened her eyes, red-rimed and glistening, meeting Harry's sympathetic ones. She didn't want the sympathy, there was nothing he could do or say that would take the pain away.

Harry saw the guilt and exhaustion reflected there and fought the urge to continue with what he'd been going to say to her. The look in her eyes told him not to and as he opened his mouth, she silenced him.

"Not now Harry." She said in a choked voice. She stood up and walked away to compose herself in the kitchen. Harry didn't see the tears that ran down her taught cheeks as she leant against the counter, but knew they were there as he rose to follow her.

Ros shot him a look of daggers when he appeared in the doorway, taking in the tear tracks and puffy eyes. He simply shrugged it off where other men would have fled, allowing him to cross the boundary in a few swift steps. Ros needed to know that someone cared.

She stared at him in confusion when he brushed the hair away from her face and stroked her cheek lightly with his thumb.

"Ros, I truly am sorry for everything." He whispered and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Ros saw a deep sadness in his face and in that moment she found she could relate to him. She wavered as he turned around and left, leaving her alone once more. Ros brought a hand to the spot Harry had kissed and realised that the ringing in her ears had stopped.


	2. Flesh

**This is based on the prompt 'Flesh', short and sweet, Ros/Lucas paring.**

* * *

She ran her hands down his smooth back, feeling the old scar tissue, ink and skin melding into one as he arced above her. Their lips interlocked fiercely, as if they were trying to suck the life out each other before she let out a slight moan.

They liked to play rough, taking the pleasure with the pain, though neither had clear boundaries between the two.

She felt coarse stubble brush against her skin as she dug her fingernails into his skin, not quite drawing blood, though the tangible metallic taste lingered in her mouth from where she had bitten her lip earlier. She was sure he could taste it too.

Sweat beaded on the surface, red raw skin exposed, the scent of each other drove them on. It was animal attraction, pure and simple, but that was their problem.

Sometimes, Lucas would whisper to her in Russian, and she would reply in the same tongue. It helped them to distance each other from who they really were. For each night, when they finally collapsed side by side, battle scared and muscles aching, they no longer looked each other in the eye. They were afraid of what they might see. It was easier that way, if they didn't look past the flesh.


	3. Drive

**This is just a silly quick one based on the prompt 'Drive' I just thought Ros would be a terrible backseat driver.**

* * *

"Ok," Said Harry

"Jo, you go with Ros."

_Great_, she thought. She really wanted to be subject to Ros' erratic driving.

As they walked across to the pool car, Jo mustered up the courage to ask Ros a question.

"Umm, can I drive this time?" She asked casually.

"Why?" Came the frosty question.

Jo muttered under her breath.

"Because I don't want to die."

Ros shot her a look that almost made her blood run cold.

"Fine." Ros told her icily chucking the keys over the roof of the silver car. Jo would regret it.

Ros, it turned out, was a terrible backseat driver and Jo instantly wished she had never opened her mouth.

She tutted and sighed in the passenger seat, pointing out faults with almost everything the she did. It was like driving with her mother.

"Could you go any slower?" She drawled sardonically.

Jo rolled her eyes. "I'm going by the speed limit." She told her through gritted teeth.

"That's exactly the problem." Ros muttered.

Jo clenched the steering wheel until her knuckles went white and tried to ignore her, which was proving very difficult.

"Oh come on! You could have gone then!" Ros all but shouted, throwing her hands in the air as they sat at a junction.

"Why don't you just over the take them? They're driving at a snail's pace."

"You don't have to slow down to take the bloody corner."

"Pull over."

"What?" Jo asked

"I said pull over." Jo sighed, but didn't get much of a choice in the matter when Ros leant across her and steered the car to the roadside. She then stepped out of the car and stalked round the driver's side.

"Move over." Ros ordered, opening the door and sliding in as Jo scrambled into the passenger seat.

Jo closed her eyes as they sped off at break-neck speed, narrowly missing a large lorry that could barely fit on its own side of the road and prayed that she wouldn't die.


	4. Christmas

**Here's a little Christmasy drabble, featuring Ros and Harry.**

* * *

Ros stared at the frost that crept up her window, the icy fingers circled patterns over the glass. Fitting, for she was 'the ice queen' and this was her glassy domain.

She sighed as she turned to the clock, almost midnight, soon to be Christmas day. Ros had never been a big fan of Christmas, the supposed family affair had never been a joy in her house as a child. Her father was rarely at home, always forgetting to buy presents or to make time for his family, her mother was usually depressed and turned to drinking like a fish every Christmas and her older brother was the only one who made any effort in putting some fun into the holiday. But he wasn't around now and Christmas was just a depressing echo of what could have been.

She poured herself another drink and as she brought the glass to her lips, she realised that she was turning into her mother. Ros dismissed this as the inevitable and downed most of the firey liquid that burned down her throat, warming her on this cold night. Turning back to the clock again, she decided that she ought to turn in for the night, least she really become her mother and drink herself into a yuletide stupor.

She awoke the next morning, feeling rather groggy and realised that there was someone knocking at the door. Wondering who on earth would be at the door at this time on Christmas morning as she approached the door to open it, she was going to irritably inquire "Yes?" When upon opening it she discovered that it was Harry on the doorstep, a rather bashful look on his face, holding a small parcel, carefully wrapped in gold paper.

"Ros, good morning." He smiled at her.

"Harry, what brings you here?" Asked Ros, slightly taken aback.

"Well, I don't think anyone should spend Christmas alone." He told her nervously, handing her the gold parcel.

"Here." He said. Ros smiled and took the box, feeling rather touched that someone, especially Harry, had taken the time to get her a gift.

Harry knew that she was grateful, there was no need for her to say anything. He also knew that she would be grateful for he offer he was about to make her.

"I'm, ah going to Ruth's for dinner, Lucas is joining us too. Would you care to come?"

Ros smiled again, a genuine smile, which was not something Harry could say he saw often.

"It would be a pleasure." She assured him.

While none of them could celebrate with family, they at least had each other, as a strange sort of family. Yet it was still one they could do with not getting too attached to as members frequently departed, and that night, they toasted their most recent lost before getting on with quiet festivities.


	5. Treatment

**Set after 8.08 as Ros recovers in hospital. (She has to be alive)**

* * *

Ros stirred in the hospital bed, shivering under the thin sheets and letting out a small moan as the pain in her leg woke her from her fitful sleep. She woke to darkness in the room, the hum of one of the machines her only company and wished she could just go home.

Time in the hospital went at a snails pace, her 'treatment' just consisted of various pain alleviating drugs to numb her broken leg, ribs and throbbing head.

She pushed the button by her hand and soon felt a wave of warmth wash over her. She smiled, eyes drooping, as a grey fuzz descended and helped her slip back into a deep sleep.

When she next awoke it was to the concerned face of Andrew Laurence as he sat by her bed. It took her few moments to take stock of her surroundings this time, before she realised with a sinking feeling, where she was.

She grunted as she shifted gingerly and had been meaning to say "How are you Home Secretary?" though it came out more like a series of disjointed unintelligible noises. Ros found herself slightly embarrassed, bringing a slight flush to her pale cheeks, as she prided herself on being able to hold perfectly eloquent conversation in all circumstances. She closed her eyes and eventually managed an intelligible version her inquiry.

"Oh, quite alright, thanks. I was rather more worried as to how you were doing?" Came his timid reply.

Ros laughed slightly, causing a sharp pain to shoot through her chest.

"I've been better." She managed, when the wheezing subsided.

Andrew nodded, noting sweat beading on her forehead from the exertion it had taken on her. He had, in fact been in the room for several minutes before she had woken, enough to hear her moaning in her drug induced sleep.

He couldn't believe that this was the same Ros Myers who was unafraid of death, who had dragged him down a corridor, the woman who left a lasting imprint on any who crossed her. His eyes followed the stitches that ran along the side of her forehead from where a piece of shrapnel had left its imprint.

Ros cleared her throat and he realised that he was staring at her. Ros was growing more uncomfortable by the second, not because he was here, but because she hated anyone seeing her like this. Weak and fragile.

"I just wanted to say thank you." He said nervously, beaming widely at her.

He left shortly after, but something told Ros he'd be back. She smiled a little at this notion. Maybe her recovery wouldn't be so slow after all.


	6. Fearless

**I haven't updated or written in ages...going to get back into the swing of things soon hopefully. This is a little something I actually wrote a while ago.**

* * *

Fearless, that's how everyone described Ros Myers. An ice maiden. Never showing the cracks, never melting.

And they were almost right.

She could stare down the barrel of a gun and stay perfectly composed. She could sit at a table opposite a ruthless killer and make jokes dripping with sarcasm. She could stand over a bomb, the counter speeding towards zero, calmly finding the right connection to sever. Fearless.

Almost.

But when Ros had been sinking through the water under the Thames barrier, unable to breathe, giving up any hope of Adam getting them out, she had been terrified then.

When Juliet was baring down on her, needle poised, she had cried the tears of someone who was very much afraid to die, while Harry had screamed words of comfort and praise for her.

And when she had told Russell Price she wasn't scared of death, she'd lied. As the seconds counted down, she knew wouldn't make it out of that building with the Home Secretary and that petrified her. But she wouldn't show the fear to Andrew, instead cracked jokes with him before the explosion.

They were almost right, Ros was fearless, unless she had time to think about her fate.


End file.
